


didn't think about getting this far

by royalties



Series: motivational drabbles [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not really a character study, Post-Battle, Post-Dark Continent Arc, Vomiting, largely ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 12:27:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20309494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalties/pseuds/royalties
Summary: post-battle on Black Whale 1





	didn't think about getting this far

**Author's Note:**

> utterly experimental and half delirious attempt to write something of substance. I never finish the writing I say I will, so I thought I should at least publish something that was requested. not entirely pleased, I only liked the initial concept, will probably re-haul this later. for now, enjoy?

The street is quiet. The moon hangs low in the sky with the bright white mask of normalcy and bathes the portside village in dim silver light.

Hisoka walks with his bloodied shoes hanging from his fingers, the light purple leather likely stained beyond repair; his pants, equally bloodstained and torn up the center-seam, hang loose and wet over his bare feet. Every step smears gore from the fabric on the skin just above his toes; the damp, sandy asphalt squishes in tandem.  
Hisoka hums. 

The man behind him is significantly less serene, though no less spattered with the evidence of battle. His med-case drags; his steps stumble. 

Hisoka’s eyes narrow at the street before them. It is too late at night – or, morning, now – for the town’s inhabitants to be out, or perhaps they were wise and had remained barricaded in their homes since yesterday morning, when Black Whale 1 had been announced sunken off their coast. It was reported the ship had several survival capsules and they only two directions in which to travel; it was probable that any passengers resourceful enough to escape would wash up here. 

Survival and probability, of course, are the primary obstacles to what might have been an enjoyable evening. 

Hisoka’s expectations for this planned soiree had far been exceeded; one satisfying, drawn-out battle, and then another, and again, and the brutality of the succession war as an orchestral background; every deck, every foggy porthole soaked in blood, it was exquisite. Many of the deaths he predicted had occurred; and many he didn’t, but were exciting nonetheless. 

All, except one.

Truth be told, Hisoka did not expect to survive that morning, nor noon or night; now that he had, he was not entirely sure what to do with himself next. Custom would dictate he deliver the corpses to their prior estate, but they had fallen overboard when Tier 3 had split apart. Currently, he was trying to decide whether it would be more lucrative to leave the bodies sunken or to carry them back immediately. 

There were other matters to attend, however. Hisoka spied a damp, felled log likely from yesterday’s storm at the edge of the deserted street; he headed towards it, hands and shoes swaying.

He slowed his pace when the weak approximation of footsteps halts behind him. A glance back over his shoulder confirmed: his companion is simply standing beneath a streetlamp, idle, the dirtied mint-green of his tunic hanging loosely over his tattered white undershirt. His black bag of medicines is nowhere to be seen, though it was his nigh-hysterical boutade that caused Hisoka to bring a stop to their escape and retrieve it in the first place. 

“Do you need help?” Hisoka waits, but the man’s eyes do not twitch for a moment, focused on some place off in the surrounding forest. “Doctor.” Nothing. Hisoka pitches his voice high and soft. “Leorio.” 

To no surprise, that is what earns a response. Leorio looks at him with a dawning sort of revulsion usually reserved for the worst of the men he meets: Pariston. Perhaps Gon’s father.

Hisoka walks to him, lifting one of Leorio’s limp arms around his shoulder and wrapping the other around his waist. Leorio does not protest. 

They make it to the log in one battle-torn piece. Hisoka leans his back against the mossy trunk; Leorio braces both hands on the log’s surface, and begins to vomit.

He does not count how much time passes by. The only sounds are faint rustles from the woods, the wind knocking against the iron of the lampposts, and Leorio’s retching. Finally, he spits and coughs wetly, pressing clammy knuckles to his mouth. 

“You are in shock,” Hisoka explains, patiently. “and you’ve lost track of your med-case. Would you like us to search for it?” 

Leorio’s voice is raspy and weak from continuous hours of yelling and exposure to various gases. The puddle of vomit on the ground glistens with dark brown blood. “I – n. Ne – ed.” 

“Do you need me to search for it?” 

Leorio shakes his head. “I – ne – ed. To. G – o.” He waves a shaky hand over his shoulder. “Ba – ack.” 

Hisoka’s eyes gleam in the lamplight. Slowly, he shakes his head. “We cannot go back,” he explains again, gently. “There is nothing of the ship left, by now.” _And the hundreds of thousands of corpses are long gone_. “Leorio, you cannot do anything for them.” 

Leorio balls his hand into a fist and pounds it harshly on the log. The air crackles blue and the bark splinters half a foot under the force. Hisoka bites the inside of his cheek. “We cannot do anything for him, Leorio. I am sorry.” 

“Ba – stard.” Leorio’s voice has become a rasping roar. “With – out you – without y – ou –“ 

“Yes.” Hisoka dips his head in acknowledgement. It’s true. 

Kurapika would not have been found, without his interference. Kurapika would not have discovered the full extent of Tserriednich’s collection, without his interference. Kurapika would not have lost Prince Woble, without his interference. “I did not intend for him to die, Leorio.” 

Many things took place he did not intend, tonight. Machi had been absorbed. Little Kalluto had been slaughtered. He, Hisoka, is alive. 

“I am sorry,” Hisoka repeats, “that Kurapika is dead.” He steps away from the vomit-puddle, placing his shoes on the flat of the trunk. “I did not intend it.” 

They had found his body on the deck, in the arms of his Nen-master. His eyes were open and stinging scarlet, so bright it cast light upon the deck. But Izunavi’s anger was not that of a man who had failed; it was the incredulous fury of one who had been wronged.

Hisoka found it all very curious. Kurapika had grown wonderfully into his power. He should not have been outclassed. 

Leorio is staring blankly at the ground, ear tilted every-so-slightly towards Hisoka - his mouth gapes in an obscene indicator of extreme shock. “Shoulda said hi,” is all he says, the first strung-together sentence that isn’t halting, but slurred. Saliva runs down his chin, mixing with the viscous remnants of blood and vomit. 

Hisoka extends his arms, and Leorio folds into him, collapsing. His knees plop wetly on the ground. Hisoka holds him around the middle, stroking his hair and humming soft nothings. His yellow eyes stare off into the distance and for once, he does not smile.


End file.
